


Peace Is But A Shadow Of Death

by discohargreeves



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Happy Ending, Lots of it, M/M, Pennywise (IT) is His Own Warning, Pennywise is mentioned a lot, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Swearing, The Losers Club (IT) All Appear, but fuck that fucking clown, sorry - Freeform, stan doesn't
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-31 01:24:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21033926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discohargreeves/pseuds/discohargreeves
Summary: Pennywise was dead. It was over.But it wasn’toverbecause Stan was still fucking dead, there was a body in Mikes home, there was still blood and dirt under Bev’s and Ben’s fingernails, Bill still had his stutter, Eddie’s cheek still had a fucking hole in it, and Richie-Mike didn't think he'd ever seen Richie cry.-Or, the losers club, after.-





	1. Ben

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So, this fic is basically gonna be set the few months after It 2 (2019). There's gonna be one chapter for each loser & collective one at the end. It's probably gonna focus a lot on the trauma and the aftermath of that trauma, so I'd say just stay away if you were triggered by any aspects of the film. Okay, that's all, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a silence between them and it burns with questions left unsaid, promises hanging between them that keep them from tearing apart. There’s a certain acceptance in the air, an ‘I love you. I love you more than anything, you have to know that.’ And they know it, they really do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter// there’s mentions of a really unhealthy relationship with food & self hatred, please don’t read if you think you might be triggered

Ben had always had a certain fascination with fire.

He remembers the way his hand lightly shook as he perfected his handwriting.

_January Embers_

It’d always been there, in the back of his mind. That poem. Any red-haired woman would send his stomach into an unstoppable frenzy- not in a good way. In the worst way possible. He’d always feel like he was missing something- something integral to his very being, and not being able to pinpoint it sent his head spinning and his heart racing.

_ my heart burns there too _

Then he’d open his wallet, and out would tumble the sad sad yearbook page, the one signature, etched onto the paper and his heart, forever and always. Even if he couldn’t quite remember why.

_Beverly Marsh._  
Seeing her again felt like a punch in the gut and a hug all at once, because holy shit, Beverly Marsh.

There were those January Embers. The poem.

When she put it into the fire, he couldn’t _ not_ watch it burn. He watched the swirling flames swallow what he thought was his heart, what he saw as the very point of his existence. But then he’d looked up and saw Bev, and he knew it wasn’t true. Those swirling flames, they’d never engulf him, never take him, not when he had her. She was his heart, she was the very point of his existence.

A few weeks later, he dreamt of flames. 

He saw them engulf him, saw Beverly on the other side, watching. She wasn’t screaming, she wasn’t crying, she watched him burn.

‘Screw your January embers.’ She’d said, but it wasn’t her, because her voice was mangled and _ wrong _

“You’ll burn, Ben. You’ll burn squealing like a little piggy.”

Then he woke up. He didn’t wake up screaming, didn’t wake up crying. He was just really hot.

Sprawled across his bare chest were those locks of winter fire, his January embers.

They made him feel a little sick; the image of them setting alight, the sound of _ ‘did you really think i could love someone as fat and disgusting as you?’_ clouding his mind until he didn’t see his Beverly anymore. He saw his biggest fears manifested in the girl he would give his entire life for.

He saw fear. 

As he ran to the front of the boat, repressing the overwhelming need to vomit- he spared a thought for Richie. Richie, who’d loved just as fiercely as Ben, who’d feared nothing more than losing the one he loved. Who’d also uselessly pined for 27 fucking years. He thought he should really give him a call. 

He wondered if Richie sometimes felt like throwing up when he looked at the one he loved more than anything.

He wondered if Richie sometimes felt like throwing up when he looked at himself in the mirror.

Ben himself hadn’t felt like that since he was 17, since he looked at himself in the mirror, hated it, punched said mirror, and let his hands burn with the sting of hatred. At that moment, watching the blood flow down his arm (feeling a wave of de ja vu hit him, wondering why the _ fuck _ it was such a familiar sight?) that he decided he was done. He was done spending a ridiculous amount of money on comfort food (comfort for what, he wasn’t sure), he was done with the immense self hatred he felt day after day, he was done with that unfamiliar (but eerily memorable) voice in his head telling him that ‘nobody ever wants to kiss the fat boy.’

He spent hours at the gym, went days eating nothing but the odd orange. He tortured himself to get to a point where he felt good, where he felt okay.

Okay, but never happy. Not until he saw Bev again.

He hadn’t hated himself in a long while, but, the killer clown from outer space he’d fought not one month ago was incredible at bringing back childhood insecurity.

He was sure he’d get over it. He was sure he’d get over all of this. 

He was sure that one day, Bev would be able to put her hand on his shoulder without him jumping away, feeling his stomach churn and hearing a voice in his head say ‘she’ll never love you.’

That day, though, isn’t today. 

No, because when she puts her hand on his shoulder today, he’s halfway back to the bedroom before she can even realise what’s happened.

“Ben?” 

When she walks in, he’s almost hyperventilating, his hands clutching uselessly to the skin of his stomach. He wants to pull it, wants to get rid of it, he wants to feel nothing when he places his hand underneath his ribcage.

His hands burn. His whole body burns. It’s not January embers, it’s just fire. It’s regular fucking fire, and it hurts. It fills his lungs and invades his cells, pushing tears into his eyes and bile into his throat. 

When he passes out, it’s the biggest relief since he’d ran out of Neibolt with the rest of the losers.

-  
This time, when he wakes up, he doesn’t feel like he’s on fire. He’s also wearing a shirt. Which is nice. 

Bev’s in the room, but her mind is somewhere else, Ben can tell. She’s biting her nails and staring at their dog, though she’s not really seeing him. She’s seeing something far out of Ben’s comprehension and God, he really hates that fucking clown.

“Do you want something to drink?”

It’s not what he means to say, or at least, he doesn’t think it is, but it snaps Beverly out of her stupor all the same and she’s looking at him, her eyes burning holes in his skull.

“No. Do you?”

“No.”

There’s a silence between them and it burns with questions left unsaid, promises hanging between them that keep them from tearing apart. There’s a certain acceptance in the air, an ‘I love you. I love you more than anything, you have to know that.’ And they know it, they really do. 

“Ben, are you okay?”

_are you okay?_

It’s a loaded question, perhaps more so than either of them realise. Is he okay? He wants to say yes, but they both know that’s a lie. He’s scared. He’s scared of something metaphysical- he’s scared of the memories of a fat boy from the 80s, but more than that, he’s scared of the potential he holds to sink back to being that fat boy. He’s scared that Pennywise was right, that deep down, he’ll always be_ just a little fatty _.And it’s not the physical appearance- not just that, anyway- that scares him. It’s the vulnerability, the weakness that he used to swallow down with ridiculous amounts of junk food. It’s the lack of control over his own body, it’s the fear of Henry’s taunts, it’s the pain of a small fat boy that resonates so deeply with the pain of himself. The demons of the little fat boy haven’t left him, but they haven’t necessarily grown stronger, which, he supposes, is a good thing.

It is. A good thing. They haven’t grown stronger, and if 17 year old him could overpower them, then so could 40 year old him. This time, he wouldn’t be alone. This time, he had Bev. He had Bev and the rest of the losers. 

When he looked up at Bev, he saw those January embers once more. Not flames. Not fear. 

_ winter fire. january embers. _  
His heart burnt, but it wasn’t painful.

“No.” He says, looking into her eyes, “but I will be.”

It’s a promise, a promise that burns like the fire of a thousand suns, and she sees that. When she smiles, it sets another fire within him, a fire that’d been dormant for nearly 30 years- one in his soul, one he can only recognise as a fire of love. 

Nothing could tear him away from Beverly. Not self-hatred, not fear, not a space-clown, not himself.

“I will be,” he continues “for you and for me.”

It’s enough. For now, it’s enough. 

The next morning, when he wakes up with Beverly’s curls covering his chest, he doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t run way, he buries his face in them and leaves the lightest of kisses, smiling softly to himself as the morning light dances over them, illuminating them.

_January Embers._


	2. Mike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows the ins and outs of the Derry sewer system, but he doesn’t know how to have friends.
> 
> _crazy_
> 
> Maybe, he concludes, he is crazy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter wasn’t easy to write, but I really enjoyed it so I hope you do too! Please leave a comment if you do. Or if you don’t.

Mike always thought of Florida to be a possible safe haven.

He thought that the first step off of the plane would feel like a weight lifted from his shoulders: would feel like freedom, but as it stood, that step feels like the hardest step he’s ever taken, his feet screaming at him to turn the fuck back.

_you’re only going to be lonely out here._

He manages, though. Drags his body aimlessly through the airport, feeling a little as though he’s watching a ghost of himself, but he does it, he gets to the hotel. He manages.

Gone is Derry. Gone is the wall of missing posters, the taunting newspaper articles, the killer fucking clown. Gone is the need to stay rational- to stay sane. The need to stop his manifested feelings of fear and grief from bubbling to the surface. He’s alone, he can let them out.

He’s _alone_

And it’s the last thing he wants.

A large part of himself wants to scream out in frustration, because he’s escaped derry. After 27 fucking years, he’s escaped, but he can’t escape the memories, he can’t escape the loneliness. 

An even larger part of himself just wants everything to fucking stop.

The most alive he’s felt in 27 damn years was on that day when the losers came back. The second his hands made contact with the fabric of Bill’s jacket- his insides lit up like fireworks. He wanted never to let go, he wanted to hold on to that touch, but he couldn’t. 

_ That’d just be insane, wouldn’t it mikey? Crazy. Crazy Mike. _

Physical contact. It’s interesting. He went 27 years without it. Hugging Bill again was like coming home.

And now? Now he’s lost that again. Bill’s gone back to being some hot shot Hollywood author, Ben and Bev are off living their best lives on a yacht, Richie and Eddie are off discovering love in LA and Stan-

_ alone again, hey Mikey? just like you knew you would be. _

And he’s not. Alone. There’s a losers groupchat which is constantly blowing up his phone, which sits heavy in his pocket. He could just take it out, call one of the losers. 

Call Bill.

But he _can’t _

_why can’t you, Mikey?_

He can’t, because he doesn’t know how to. He doesn’t know how to _not_ be lonely. He knows how to stew in the torturous quiet of the once thriving library, connecting dots, straining his ears for the radio, reading newspapers-

_ crazy, Mikey. You’re crazy_

He knows the ins and outs of the Derry sewer system, but he doesn’t know how to have friends.

_crazy_

Maybe, he concludes, he is crazy. 

-

The sand on the beach is scorching. It slips between his toes and it’s the weirdest sensation. He’d often watch the sand timer in the library. It’d run out. He’d flip it. It’d run out again. He’d flip it again.

_ get a fucking life, Mikey._

There’s families running around, the sound of children’s laughter sending a chill up his spine, making him want to run for the hills. 

The ocean is an endless stretch ahead of him. He wants to walk to the horizon, drop off of the end of the earth. Maybe then he’d feel something other than loneliness.

_crazy_.

When a kid bumps into him, laughing before apologising briefly and running away joyously screaming, Mike goes back to the hotel, collapsing onto the bed with tears in his eyes.

_ can’t even handle the beach, Mikey? Crazy._

The groupchat still buzzes in his pocket. Life keeps going, children keep screaming, Mike keeps crying.

_Richie: so anyway, Eddie shrunk my shirt_

_Eddie: that’s how we ended up almost adopting a dog._

_Richie: but we let him go to different owners because they had a sense of mental stability and could actually look after themselves AND a dog_

_Eddie: unlike Richie and I._

_Ben: finishing each other’s sentences already? _

_Richie: jealous, benji?_

_ _Mike: I hate Florida._ _

He doesn’t know why he sends it. He hates himself the second it goes through. He ruined it. He ruined the fun. 

__

_ as usual. crazy_

__

_Richie: not enough babes for you, Mikey?_

__

_Hey, Mikey?_

__

_Can’t escape, Mikey. _

__

_Mike: you could say that_

__

_Bill: everything okay, mike? _

__

No. But, mike can’t remember a time when anything was okay. 

__

He can’t close his eyes without the obnoxious, glaring font of the ‘missing’ posters appearing on the darkness of his eyelids. He can’t sleep without nightmares. He can’t fulfil his dream of conquering Florida without wanting more.

__

Goddamn it, he just wants a fucking hug.

__

Mike: pennywise is such a fucking piece of shit. Fuck that fucking clown.

__

Messages keep coming through. Mike stares at the sand down on the beach from his view in the hotel, almost expecting it to begin to move. Counting down. Counting down.

__

1  
2  
3  
4  
-  
The call comes unexpectedly. He counts to 387. 

__

It’s Bill. His voice is almost enough to stop the counting.

__

His voice almost feels like a hug. If he closes his eyes, he can feel his arms engulfing him. He can feel the group hug in Bev’s room. He can feel Bill pressing their foreheads together after they killed It.

__

As the phonecall goes on, the voice in his head diminishes. The voice that sounds suspiciously like a fucking clown grows quiet. Grows silent. Even for only 1,802 seconds. 

__

It’s the longest it’s been silent in 27 years. 

__

With Bill’s voice floating through his head, Mike closes his eyes, welcomes the darkness. 

__

When he wakes up, the sun streams through the curtains, and he decides to go to the beach. When he watches the sand squeeze between his toes, it feels less like a timer, like doom. It feels more like

__

sand.

__

It’s just sand.

__

_ n-n-not crazy, m-mike. _

__

He likes this new voice in his head, even if it can’t overpower the clown chuckles. Even if it can’t cover the 

__

_crazy_

__

cruel conjurings of his mind. It’s enough. It’s a start. A fresh start. An escape.

__


End file.
